Old School
by la-chevreuille
Summary: DeathEaters-in-training v.Marauders, romance, dying History profs, vampiric ghosts and much more - 'Old School' Hogwarts. SORRY! The title story has since been discontinued, but as a lovely parting gift I have added a prequelesque chapter of pure PWP smut
1. Pomp and Circumstance

SORRY! The title story has since been discontinued, but, as a lovely parting gift I have added a prequel-esque chapter of pure PWP smut. Mano a mano, that's /man sex/, kiddies.

But! Read the first chapter if you ever have the time, it might be mildly entertaining.

**» Title: **Old School  
**» Author:** eggads, Horace! (e-mail: Fandom: HP

**» Rating:** M

**» On Going (WIP)/One-off/Series: **Discontinued  
**» Classification(s):** Lemon, slightest bit of AU

**» Warnings:** Some Language, Violence, and slash of course  
**» Pairing(s): **James/Lucius, soft Lucius/Remus, Lucius/Sirius, Severus/OC, James/Lily

**» Summary: **

Lucius, Severus, James, Sirius, Remus and Peter have began their sixth year of schooling at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and almost immediately the tragic, humiliating and hilarious being to interrupt their studies. It's Marauders vs. Junior Death Eaters, near-death experiences a dime a dozen, vampiric ghosts, dying History professors, cat-owls, hydras and a little bit of that old-fashioned L-O-V-E. Do it the Old School way!

**Old School**

Chapter One

Pomp and Circumstance

¯œ

**Lucius**

Honestly, any way you looked at it, Professor Leonidas was an incompetent fool and should be hanged. Even better, drawn and quartered. Pressed. Stretched. Garroted, run through an iron maiden, and crucified. Then fed to pariah dogs. In the old days, I could have even arranged it so that his decaying head stood on a pike at the Manor gates; alas, the wizarding world was (slowly) modernizing, and the Ministry now frowned heavily on such things.

I fumed over scrolls upon scrolls of third-year essays, already graded with scores clearly marked in red ink. My task was to examine every assignment for 'careless teacher errors' (which I found in plenty), then murmur the grade to his little red book. It would appear in the tiny space provided, next to the student's name. I'd been doing it for hours, and the end of my torment was nowhere in sight.

Gint Leonidas' last battle as an active Auror had been fought over twenty years before, and everyone knew he'd signed on the Hogwarts staff to try and snatch after some last bit of his fading glory. Now, he was a has-been put out to pasture, and stuck with teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts to seven years of students to boot. I felt no sympathy for him. The conceited bastard deserved what he asked for, especially for sentencing _me_ to detention in the _first week_ of school.

I could have taught that class with far more fluency than darling Gint, and he knew it. The man gave me detention for being 'cheeky'—Mother of God, how was I supposed to contain myself? He'd been talking about Occamies. My father happens to have a small breeding population in his greenhouse, and I'd think even an Aurorer would know that they're docile as Puffskeins when fed regularly. And _**he**_, the boy sitting across the room, was nodding thoughtfully and taking in every word the idiot said, like it was engraved in stone and limned in gold. I couldn't let it stand. Leonidas insisted that, as I was a prefect, he had to 'crack down' doubly hard on my infractions, to show a good example himself.

Not only was the dear 'professor' a smarmy _wanker_, I though viciously, head pounding, he was the Head of Gryffindor House and had single-handedly prevented Slytherin House from winning the Cup last two years running. Ample reason to hate him. Loathe him. Abhor his every—

Sudden shouts broke out from the first-years serving detentions with me. I jerked my head up, my eyes, nearly blinded in excruciating effort, slowly clearing, to reveal the fistfight that had suddenly broken out between a Slytherin and a _Hufflepuff_, of all people. I raised my wand and sighed, "_Sedo affectus_." Swish and flick.

Under the calming spell, they quieted. Technically, spells that controlled the emotions of others were highly illegal and bound by strict Ministry decree, but this lot wasn't likely to tattle. The two shot me glares of extreme dislike and whispered together, quarrel apparently forgotten in favor of prefect-bashing. They had reason; even in my own House I was hated. I made no effort to be more pleasant than I wanted to be for the sake of others, and I _never _suffered fools, gladly or otherwise. But more importantly, I was feared. They knew some of what I was capable of, and were quite terrified. It was a sensation I must say I enjoyed creating in others.

Pinching the bridge of my nose between two fingers, I closed my eyes and willed the rage away, until I was as empty inside as the heads of my fellow detentionees. Although they certainly deserved my anger, I really was more annoyed at myself than the imbeciles in front of me.

I'd been leaking. Had to be more careful…

³³³³

It was over two hours after the fight before Leonidas made an appearance. He shooed the younger students out, before turning to me and saying, eyebrows raised, "I trust this is the end of our little problem, Mr. Malfoy?"

I didn't dignify that ludicrous statement with a response. I packed up my things and glided out, quite certain there were actual bags under my eyes and feeling like something scraped out the bottom of an N.E.W.T. Potions cauldron. I didn't even have the energy to give him the patented Malfoy glare.

Out of sight of anyone that needed impressing, I slumped a little, stumbling tiredly down to the ground floor landing. I drummed up a bit of vigor, though, as I was hailed by a familiar, detested voice.

"Ho there, what's this?"

I ignored it.

"A student? Ah, yes! And none other than our most beloved, the third Deadly Sin, Arrogance, in all his… splendor." Quiet snickering followed.

"Shut up, Astor," I snapped at the portrait. He was a well done, if modern, painting, depicting a young man, sword loosely clasped in one hand. His eyes glittered malevolently as I passed him.

"Detention, was it? I'm not surprised, not surprised at all." He nodded his head, solemnly, but the manic grin never left his face. "Must say, you are quite the opposite of who I expected to be appointed prefect; what, with your history here? And your family…connections, shall we say? By themselves I should think they're _quite_ enough to get you expelled."

I paused, one foot on the stairs leading down. I didn't say anything, but the look on my face as I stared at him would have been warning enough, for someone less thick and less convinced of their own importance.

"Don't go there?" The grin was wide and derisive. "Why, Arrogance, you're proud of it, _aren't_ you? Always pride, with the Malfoys. Always pride." He cackled. Astor was truly insane, and why he wasn't located in some dusty unused tower where no impressionable first-years could encounter him remained a mystery.

"Don't think they aren't watching you. Ooooh, yes, precious little Arrogance, scion of the Darkest family." He crouched down in his frame, chin resting on his sword hilt, hungry eyes fixed on mine. "You're their closest bet to finding He-Who—"

"_Ater picturatus_."

With a stifled yelp, Astor disappeared under a tide of black.

I muttered, "Bloody brilliant," under my breath and somehow made it from the stairs to one particular statue, that of Dadimus, the heroic scholar (so it proclaimed on his base pediment). I tapped his left shoulder and muttered, "_Iaculator_." Who came up with these passwords?

Dadimus gave a massive yawn and said grumpily, "I was sleepin', yeh damn prefect." He stretched a little, scratched his arm, then closed his eyes again. He made no move to step aside.

I gave a helpful shove, but, being marble, the 'heroic' scholar didn't shift an inch. He rolled his eyes at my impatience and I pointed my wand threateningly at him. "Dadimus, I just had—" I checked my watch. "Good God, _seven hours_ of detention with Bint Leon-arse, I am _not_—"

"Fine, fine," he muttered, slumping a little to the left. I nearly ruptured several important organs squeezing through the tiny opening, but I made it. Dadimus knew I could do nothing to him directly without arousing the wrath of Dumbledore, who had appointed him the Entrance's Guardian in the first place, but he'd be sorry; the next time the Slytherins were looking for a pranking, I would make it my duty as a prefect to direct them away from inappropriate targets and towards more deserving ones.

It was very dark in Boy's Prefect dormitories at this hour. Prefects, being the most dedicated of students, tended to blow out the candles early. Tonight, one o'clock had come and gone.

Currently occupying the eight rooms available were myself and Severus, the Glorious Gryffindor Potter and one of his Loyal Sidekicks, Lupin, Wystan and Gherhard of Ravenclaw, and two Hufflepuffs I hadn't bothered to learn the names of. Soft, barely-there snores could be heard from the bedrooms I passed. I paused at one doorway, and for a furtive, wistful moment listened to his deep, even breathing. They were all quiet sleepers, which I appreciated. Unfortunately, it didn't matter jackshite. Just on the other side of the cold granite walls was a common room; I wasn't sure which one. The castle freely switched rooms, floors, and even wings with this room. Sometimes it was cold and damp from the dungeons, like now. Sometimes it was drafty, as if in the highest tower. But it was always by a common room. No amount of thickness in the stone could block out the raucous noise that normally didn't stop until well after midnight. Tonight was no different. I left his door and felt for my own door in the dark. The first thing I did was grab my spelled earplugs and shove them in. The charm on them was fading due to continuous overusage, but I was too tired to do anything about it tonight. Someone screamed in laughter or agony (I wasn't sure which) on the other side of the wall. If they were being tortured, goody-good Potter or one of the others could rush to the idiot person's aid. I was going to sleep.

Yes, prefects were placed next to the students in order to protect them; but who was going to protect the students from the prefects, especially me? Hence, the earplugs.

I didn't even bother to light a candle or Lumos, just threw off robes, shirt, and trousers, leaving them to fall where they would as I made for the sanctuary of my four-poster. I crawled into bed, and I was _so_ tired…tired beyond reasoning. Almost immediately, even with the earplugs snug, I could hear redoubled noise through the wall. The little blighters. I picked something heavy off the desk and threw it at the wall. There was a resounding crash, and surprised yelps from my dormmates, but blessed semi-silence had returned on the other side of the granite. On our side, someone shouted, "Goddammit, Malfoy!"

I smiled, and it was mere seconds before my mind shut off completely and I slept deeply…

Dreaming of my Lord.

³³³³

Malfoy Manor sprawls across massive grounds, sprinkled liberally with moor, paddocks, quiet lakes and rivers, a true Englishman's country estate. For years, it was all I knew, a soft, fuzzy-edged cocoon of wealth and privilege, private tutors, pets, and long, lazy days. We're fairly close to the coast, and the smell of the ocean overrode all others when it stormed.

My parents are the most mismatched pair of people I have ever had the misfortune to grow close to. My father, the great, prestigious Tirian Irae Malfoy, was a shrewd if indifferent businessman and skilled Dark Practitioner. My earliest memories are of him, tall and slender, with a carefully groomed crop of black hair, and his ever-present creations. His father had lived in the era before the Ban on Experimental Breeding and Experimental Charms, and Grandda never saw why he should halt his studies for a Ministry his ancestors had helped start no more than four hundred years ago. Tirian followed closely in his footsteps, and the Ministry, predictably enough, let him alone. I had one of his creatures here at school; Hogwarts allowed owls, and cats, so why not Sarah, who was a little bit of both? I'm not sure the Owl Keepers appreciated this logic, even though Dumbledore did. Especially when their charges crashed into the Great Hall rafters trying to get away from her.

My mother, Meredith, is Tirian's first cousin. She's a cold woman, to be sure, and has no capacity for emotion, but she feels as much affection for me as she's able. I always am more comfortable with her, due to my, as she genteelly refers to it, 'condition'.

My father, on the other hand, loves me to an almost sickening degree; he's a man of grand passions and many varied moods. I grew up finding him tiresome and repulsive for all his feeling; could he not control himself any better than that? He's easily manipulated, and my mother is the master operator. When I was younger, I would have admired her, had I not been studiously modeling myself after her. Now, at least, I have accepted that I have no natural talent for it as she does, but I do still try.

I was a good son; I played with his friend's children, listened when he taught, and disappeared when he wanted me gone. Mother didn't mind my company, except when she was spying on my father and his 'business partners'. Then, she would instruct my current caretaker to take me to my room and keep me there, something I particularly hated. No argument was permitted.

I have already said I preferred my emotionless mother to passionate father, but it wasn't a simple choice of one person over another. Unbeknownst to Tirian or Meredith, I was sensitive to the emotions around me; an empath. Being with my father was, quite simply, painful. If I was agitated, everyone around me tended to become agitated, which in turn fed my agitation—it was a never-ending cycle. I'm beginning to realize it's a minor symptom of a much bigger problem; but then, it seemed a huge problem all in itself.

My father slowly realized my affliction, and added a barrier between my mind and the world. Relief, for the first time in years, was sweet and unquestioned. Except that the spell forced us closer than any father and son should ever be, and my emotions soon proved too much for him to handle day in and out. He handed the responsibility to Meredith, whose natural aplomb proved invaluable in controlling me. Until I can learn the spell myself, she is the safeguard of my sanity.

She'd perfected the spell by my second year at Hogwarts, which was considerable relief for me, and absolutely impeccable timing. Soon after, I met my Lord for the first time.

My uncle Etienne, Tirian's youngest brother, was a black sheep in one of the darkest wizarding families of history. What little memories I had of him could be summed up in three sentences: he was tall, taller than Tirian. He smelled like fall, crisp and bitter. And he hated me.

I remember being amazed, when he came to visit during summer break. He threw no wild parties, nor did he try to solicit money—highly unusual.

There were suddenly more closed doors, and strange nighttime visits from cloaked and hooded figures. My mother grew terser with me when I wanted to listen to the mysterious meetings with her. I was sent to my room more and more often, and Tirian was at the estate less and less, out on 'business runs'. I thought it a pain, and sulked. No one had ever paid much attention to me, and they began to pay even less.

Incidentally, when he and his 'partners' met on the estate, I also gained more 'friends'. It was at this time Crabbe came to me, and Redart as well. There were already Griard, Avery, and Goyle, spineless worms all, in my little group. Together, we made a collection of seven spoiled first sons, sullen and quite unwilling to put up with each other.

We, as children, were not allowed to attend our father's meetings. And we, as children, could not resist the temptation of the forbidden. We were caught several times on the way to investigate by horrified houselves and human servants, never actually making it to the Death Eater gatherings. Until one winter-bound night, when snow was thick on the ground and the cold lay a pall on the rugged coastline.

I dreamed of it now.

³³³³

_Behind the iron grate of the ancient, huge fireplace, fire sparks molten and lovely. Mesmerized, I sip hot cocoa and relax into the plush leather sofa. Snow has blanketed all sound from the outdoors, and no noise comes from my 'friends'. It's late; our fathers' meetings often run beyond midnight, and it was around that time now. We usually could amuse ourselves until around ten thirty; then we either dropped into reverie in the fire or unconsciousness. _

_Not for the first time, I want to know why. Why I must suffer these imbeciles so frequently, while my mother plots and my father has his secret conferences, acting like the boy I might have been with his covert disguises, private clubhouse and unbreakable codes?_

"_Let's try again," I say out loud, and six pairs of eyes turn to stare at me._

"_Wha?" Crabbe queries, sitting up and rubbing sleep from his eyes. _

"_Our das, wanker," Rand sneers. _

"_Why?" That was Goyle._

"_Aren't you just the little bit curious?" I ask archly. "They've been doing this nearly every week, and still tell us nothing. There has to be a reason."_

_Most of them seem to know what I'm getting at, but Crabbe and Goyle look frightened. Griard speaks up. _

"_Are you sure you want t'know?"_

_I look at him, suspicious. "You said you didn't know what they were doing."_

"_I don'," he says, yawning, but I no longer believe him. _

"_I'm going," I say quietly. My lip curls in a slight smirk. "You can stay here—if you're scared."_

_For twelve-year-olds, it is a serious charge. Griard's expression hardens. "I'm not scared!"_

"_So good to know," I intone, and we are off._

_It was dark in the hallway, quiet. My heart is beating so hard I'm surprised the others can't hear it; they look just as excited as I try not to feel. The smallest creak, even muffled under lush oriental rugs, was met with "Shhhhh!" from six mouths. _

_Across the wing, past the guest quarters, down the wide, wide marble stairs. Around the circular conservatory, to the dining hall. I've memorized the route, played it in my young mind over and over, walked exactly this pattern, and now I tell the others to follow it and leave me. I intend to go a different way._

_They do as I say; how could they not? I'm left outside the upstairs study where we've been confined. I turn, walking the opposite way; they will most certainly be caught yet again, but I will slip past notice on my own._

_I walk down the west-wing hallway; it winds past yet more empty, waiting rooms, to the concealed servant stairs. Placing the tip of my wand, a ridiculous 14-inches, on the wooden panel, I recite, "Alohomora!" _

_It must be the first spell a child learns; how to open locked doors. _

_I slip in, and already I can hear voices. Once I get around the 180-degree turn in the passage, the stairs begin to descend. Firelight flickers against the back wall of the dining hall, visible to me through the wide opening that looks down onto the massive dining set, the mounted menagerie, the fireplace built for roasting oxen whole. _

_The voices are coldly angry, near growls. With some surprise, I hear Griard's voice, raised in supplication, wailing that it was all my doing, that he hadn't wanted to. I didn't expect them to go so fast. Without me cautioning them, they must have ran like a stampede all the way. _

_A new voice. "Stop your moaning, child. It does not become a future lord."_

_That voice…_

_Hisses over my senses, echoes, even though it should have been barely discernable in the huge room. It conjures visions of the worst my child's brain can produce—death, blood, the feel of scales rubbing against your cheek in darkness. I am suddenly frightened, so frightened, more afraid of a simple voice than I have been of anything in my entire life. Yet…the words are strangely seductive, rich with promise and deep in meaning. All he had to do is whisper, eleven cold words, to send my world into a tailspin from which it will never recover._

_There is an aura of dread over the entire room, one perceivable even without my unique abilities. It creates a flat, metallic taste in the back of my throat, and I swallow convulsively. _

_I've been hiding out of sight, just beyond the small opening in the wall that looked down on the long dining table, black with age and care, and its occupants. It takes all my strength to move myself closer. Stomach roiling dangerously. I peer over the edge of the solid railing._

_My father and uncle are at the head of the table, eyes on the intruding children. Some of the men are out of their seats, holding their errant sons by arms or collars. The rest are still seated. _

_Except for one. A cloaked and hooded figure stands before the man-sized fireplace. It stalks back and forth, slowly, deliberately. The movements are like nothing human._

"_But, I wonder," the slightly sibilant voice continues. "Where _is_ the young Lord Malfoy?"_

_I duck instinctively, curling into a ball. Must not be found, must not be seen, not by the owner of the fascinating, terrifying voice._

_I must have made some noise, for the voice crooned, "There!" _

_There is a sickening lurch, and the ground disappears from beneath my feet. There is a dizzying change in perspective, from looking down on the figure to crouched before it, a wild whimper held back by sheer will. I'm going to throw up. I won't be able to stop myself._

_The figure is staring down at me, and, slowly, brings up an elegant, spidery hand to cup my face, forcing me to look upwards. I have a perfect view up his hood. My eyes widen, and my mouth hangs open, useless._

_Thin lips curl over unnaturally sharp teeth, and red eyes glow in cool amusement. _

"_Hello, Lucius."_

God, I hated that dream. I always woke up screaming.

(A/N: **Hello, Clarice.** shivers and giggles)

³³³³

Someone was shaking my shoulder, gently at first, then with increasing force. Mentally, I snapped awake with an almost audible pop, my first instinct fight.

My wand was in my hand under the covers, an Unforgivable on my lips, when I caught sight of my 'attacker' through slitted eyes. I gave a long, shuddering breath, and a slight, thoroughly Malfoy smile. I turned onto my stomach, facedown on the bed. I refused to wake so easily.

My waker was one of the few I had allowed close to me at Hogwarts, and it was times like these I regretted that I was still human enough to require some measure of affection from my fellow beings. _Mon ami_ was forever taking advantage of the friendship for his own amusement.

He shook me again, and I curled up in defense against the movement. The earplugs were removed from my ears, roughly. I fumbled for a pillow and pressed it to my head. It was yanked away.

I stated, calmly, voice muffled against the spread, "You are an arse and I hate you. Leave."

There was a snort, and the coverlet was ripped from my mostly bare body, exposing it to view and early morning chill. The undignified shriek I let escape sent my private Reveille into rare chuckles, and I reconsidered my decision not to use Unforgivables on his miserable carcass.

It was Severus, of course. He always liked to catch me at my most vulnerable, or foolish. He seems to have a talent for it; I wish I could say the same, but Sev is a bit of an enigma to me.

Resolutely, I opened my eyes, and immediately flung an arm up against the blinding sunlight streaming into the room. The idiot castle had obviously moved the rooms during the night, again. There were now windows, and mine seemed to be facing east; Hogwarts hadn't even had the decency to provide curtains.

Severus stood there, leaning against the thick ebony bedpost, arms folded across his chest. Ruler-straight hair was still damp from an earlier shower, and he looked almost cheerful, as if he'd been up for hours. Severus wasn't really a closet morning person, was he? The horror!

"Awake yet, _darling_?"

The endearment was nicely sarcastic. Poor Sevvie had lost a bet (he'd never tell me to who) and had had to profess his undying love to me at breakfast one day last year. I'd taken it was it was meant, harmless fun, and replied in kind.

Sev'd never forgiven me for French kissing him in front of the whole school.

The entire sixth year thought we were shagging each other blind, and he'd finally given up on making them see different. I didn't mind so much; I had a reputation that no amount of Potter-ing could clear. Besides, the last person that called me a 'fucking fagot' was as of this moment on extended hospital leave. No one knew when he'd be back… and no one could prove I'd actually _done_ anything…

I glared, still playful, arm even now raised to shield my eyes against the brightness. "Yes, I am, prick. And I happen to know it's Saturday. Go the bloody hell away!"

He leaned down and wagged a finger in my face. "Dear me, such language!"

Now he was tugging my other pillow away, a capital offense this early in the morning. The adrenaline rush was fading, sleep was acquiring apocalyptic importance in my mind, and Severus was in danger of being hexed to Kent and back. Unsatisfied with the two pillows, he' gone for a third, pinned under my chest. I was going to kill him.

"You have Quidditch practice, remember? You didn't go to Friday's and you told Thierry you'd practice this morning to make her shut up. She bullied a second year into promising to get up and see if you did." A tug, a twist, and the pillow was his. "Up, up and at 'em! All Hogwarts knows you need it; first match is Hufflepuff."

I snatched the covers from the end of the bed and pulled them over my head. "Bugger _off_," I moaned when he pulled them back down. He had the audacity to rip them completely off the bed and out of my reach, looming over me like a grinning scarecrow.

"Why the hell'd you care, anyway? Got a bet on?"

He made a show of studying his nails. "Something like that. If you don't beat Hufflepuff, you don't play _Gryffindor_," a sneer, "and you don't get the chance to pay back the bet I won over chess. Something along the lines of beating Potty to a bloody red pulp. And—"

He went on, but I stopped listening. I sighed, eyes fluttering closed again… "Ouch! Goddamn it of course we'll win against Hufflepuff, we always win against Hufflepuff, I'll beat Potty pulpy, so sod off…"

"Quidditch, Lucius. _Quidditch_."

I stared at him, willing him and his repulsive attitude far, far away from me, preferably where giants still lived. He smirked, unmoving.

Then, very slowly and _very_ reluctantly, growling opinions on his probable ancestry and hygiene habits the entire time, I crawled out of bed. He beamed at me and I scowled heavily at him, bad-temperedly snatching the dressing robe from the hook on the back of the door.

I stepped in front of the long mirror first, always vain. I could see his face next to mine. The undo stresses of the night before did not show on my face, for which I was grateful. "And why, may I ask," I said as I continued barefoot down the short hallway to the bathroom, "Are you even up so early?" If he was going to make a habit of policing me, I wanted to know, so I could study up on defensive wards.

Sev had still been smirking, but now he sighed, eyes going misty, dreamy. It was not an attractive expression on his angular face. "Celeste needed help with some dawnmint gathering,"

"Who?" I didn't know any Celeste.

"Professor Charian," he elaborated. He at least had the grace to look embarrassed.

I gave his image an incredulous look and contemplated the idea of my friend with our Advanced Potions teacher, the Head of Slytherin House. Yes, she was undeniably an attractive woman, but…

"Chew you up, and spit you out," was my only comment, and I went to take my shower.

³³³³

**(A/N: I am high on my granny's diet Sunkist, and it's 12:27 AM. Long live the Lizard Queen!)**

Quidditch practice was uneventful. It was the first practice of the year, and the Slytherin team was once again excellent; we'd lost two Chasers, but others were more than willing and able to fill in. I could have stepped in as Captain, but, truthfully, I was too lazy to spend all that time strategizing and planning games. I had much better things to do.

Like the rest, I'd been practicing over the summer. We practiced, not for Hufflepuff's benefit, but Gryffindor's. The Lions were our only real competitors in Quidditch, the other teams merely slight distractions in our goal to win against worthy opponents. I practiced, not only for Gryffindor, but specifically for their Seeker. Potter.

Over the years, I'd watched the rivalry between Severus and James grow and age almost like a marriage—though I'm sure neither would appreciate that analogy. There was a period, that continued up until near the middle of fifth year, where Severus was tantamount to Potter's private arserag, but thank goodness he'd managed to throw off that stigma this year. They still argued, and fought, and attempted to slip firecrackers in each other's caldrons and wardrobes. And, while I publicly sided with Severus, privately I really never could decide who I supported. I admired my housemate for his cruel, acidic wit, Potter for pure nerve and vivacity.

If I admired him for other things, as well, I'd never let Sev know.

And if I just happened to linger a few extra minutes in the changing rooms, until the Gryffindor's Seeker came to practice, just as he did every Saturday…

Well, that was nothing special, was it?

It was only in the interests of winning…

Feeling well-exercised and very wide awake, I leaned against the broom shed, surveying the sparse activity on the Hogwarts Grounds. Usually, Severus and some others would have been out to watch me, but he'd disappeared sometime between my shower and the Quidditch field, and the others couldn't be expected to surface for hours yet; it _was_ the weekend.

I was almost ready to give up and go in when there was a distant shout and the heavy bang of the oaken front doors opening and closing. Here came Potter, for once without his usual trio, but still surrounded by people. It looked like the entire team had turned up for practice that morning, which meant that my chances of going unnoticed and being able to watch were reduced to nil. Still, I posed myself carefully against the wall and pretended I didn't see them coming.

It wasn't until they drew even that Potter even noticed I was there. "Hey, clear out, Malfoy! Gryffindor's got the pitch reserved for the rest of the morning, fair and square. I've got _three_ teachers _and_ Littlehorn saying it's ours!"

How unflattering. And I was posing, too. Still. I raised a derisive eyebrow and pushed off from the wall, stretching in a way I knew showed off my Quidditch muscle. "Well, I'd best leave you to it, then," I purred. "I want at least a little challenge at our match, and Lord knows you'll need every bit practice you can get for that."

His mild brown eyes flared, and he spat out, "I could show up broomless and win against Slytherin. We'll trounce your arse in November." It was it was taken as a given that we'd both win our first games, and meet at the second.

I smirked. "Bet?"

His wide, devil-may-care smile actually made my heart skip a beat. I had it _so_ bad. "Why not? Stakes?"

I waved it away over my shoulder as I turned to walk towards the castle, movement hiding my own wide grin. "Oh, I'll think of something. Practice hard, now, Potter. Can't make it too easy."

He snorted. "Oh, it'll be easy enough."

Of course, it wasn't a given that I'd win against him, but we were matched evenly enough. If I won, I'd have a favor to call in from Precious Potter, who even when he was an obnoxious idiot made me want to jump his bones. If I lost, well, he seemed to have passed the point where he'd make me do something like drink an inkwell dry. Seemed to.

His smile lingered in my memory, and I sighed as I climbed the stairs leading to the doors. I'd drink an inkwell without protest. I'd publicly proclaim my undying love to poor Sev at breakfast. I wanted that smile to keep, to hide it away and treasure it like a child with a beautiful flower or pretty pebble. I wanted… him. I, well, I liked him. It was a little early for anything else, but my obsession with him was deepening daily. I might even… love him. A little.

It was pathetic. It was undeniably true. Most of the time, it made me want to leap off the Astronomy Tower in sheer hopelessness. Right now, it made me want to dance. I hummed an energetic waltz nearly all the way back to Dadimus.

There was nothing else important to do for the rest of the morning, so I collected the week's homework and waded in. I had status to maintain, and no teachers had publicly fawned over me yet this year. I must do something excellent…

Bugger it. I had sunk _so_ low. Impressing teachers? Blargh. I impressed professors without trying. Teachers went out of their way to fawn over me even when I _didn't_ deserve it. Just as they fawned over Potter.

Potter…

That's how Sarah found me, buried up to my ears cross-referencing runes with symbols of ancient Celtic origin. Professor Pevrin had assigned an essay examining how the Celtic people had used runes to perform magic while thinking they were calling on gods…four feet and a half of it. I'd written three and was still going strong when she swooped gracefully through the still-curtainless open window, landing in the middle of the still-drying parchment.

Sarah was a beautiful combination of ticked white feathers and pearl gray fur. Her paws were not cat-like, but a mixture of that and hands. It made her far more useful that the average owl. Her 'hands', her prehensile tail and her inherent IQ, that of a three-year-old, were Tirian's pride and joy. Mine as well.

I smiled fondly at her, scratching under her chin. "You just get more beautiful every time I see you, lovely. Harassing those awful birds must agree with you."

She made a sound, halfway between a purr and a sigh, and swatted me on the nose. "Merrowp." It meant she'd brought a letter.

She waited patiently while I detached the cream colored envelope from her chest-case; when it was free, she proceeded up to my shoulder, attention turning immediately to the bit of spare ribbon holding my hair back. She had a preoccupation with hair ties, and made short work of this one. Resignedly, I tucked the escaped strands behind my ears and slit open the envelope.

Missives from home were never very interesting, and this was no exception. Father commented on the weather, his Occamies, and Meredith, but steered far clear of my Lord's doings. Those letters came at night, stereotypically enough, and were usually delivered by ravens, bats, or another horribly cliché-plagued means. My father had never seen a Muggle horror movie in his life, or I would have accused him of infringing on copyright laws.

(And how would I, the diehard pureblood, happen to know what copyright laws are? Unfortunately for myself, Sev, while not being a Mudblood, is damn close, and has no compunctions about inflicting me with his extensive knowledge of Muggle activities. In fact, he has no compunctions about inflicting anything about himself on me, or other innocent people. I'm one of the few who hasn't withered and died under prolonged exposure to his endearing personality. I happen think it's a piss-poor defense mechanism, and have said so. He usually agrees with me, and then, for the next three days after, I'm dyed a spectacular shade of peacock blue.)

I muttered, "My ear is not a lolly, you know," and set the letter aside. Back to working on the essay, which I had hoped to finish before supper.

Instead of writing, though, I found myself staring out the window, out across the lake. If I followed the train tracks with my eyes, I could see the faint haze on the horizon that was Hogsmeade. My mind drifted again, to butterbeer and juvenile games played around the old house that was rapidly earning the title of Shrieking Shack.

It was brought abruptly back as a curious sensation started in my stomach, mildly reminiscent of a Portkey. I watched in alarm as the stone wall swallowed the window whole, leaving the room pitch black. The sensation of shifting grew, and with it my horror. Christ, the room was moving, with me in it!

A sudden lurch heralded the beginning of much more rapid movement, and Sarah was flung shrieking from my shoulder. Books and quills hit the walls, and I hit the floor, hands held protectively in front of me in the total darkness. Something metallic skidded across the floor and bounced off my skull. I yelped; the room took a sharp turn and sent my body careening into the desk. I doubled over in pain, shouting "Bloody blue _hell_!"

And just as suddenly as it had started, the motion ceased.

I unbent myself carefully from around the desk, moving slowly in respect of the several cracked ribs I was sure I had. Shaking, I whispered, "_Lumos_," to my wand, clutched tightly in my hand. The harsh blue light fell on a scene of utter chaos. I stood, scooping a shuddering Sarah off the floor. I was examining her for injuries when, lo and behold, we were privileged to witness the birth of yet another window, a bay. It simply folded into existence, and the damage in the room was highlighted farther.

The door opened, and Wystan poked his head in. "Malfoy, I heard—holy shite! Didn't Dadimus tell you we were moving?"

"No," I muttered, still surveying the mess. "No, he didn't. He never does. I'm going to have a word with him about it. Now."

Wystan took one look at my expression and made himself scarce; after all, it was Gryffindors that were known for stupid heroics, not Ravenclaws. They lived more by the Slytherin creed: "He who fights and runs away..." You know the rest.

The heroic scholar was not going to get that option.

³³³³

Severus finally showed up at supper, looking positively merry. It was a strange look on his face, and I wasn't the only one who shot him suspicious glances. It had been a fine fall day, with no classes, and the students were rambunctious throughout the meal; several minor foodfights were begun and stopped, a whole bench of students started breathing out blue and pink bubbles (it was the bilsberry trifle, evidently). Predictably enough, there were three separate botched hexes and a wild fistfight later in the corridors. It took five prefects to pull the two delinquents (Gryffindor, of course) off each other.

"Can you believe," said Sev, breathlessly and incredulously to me afterwards, "That Dumbledore's thinking of reducing the prefects down to just one boy and girl per House? And that he's moving the position down to fifth year? It'll be impossible! The man's barmy, he must be! Fifth year is…OWL year." I knew he was thinking about the humiliations Potter and his friends had visited on him in fifth year, and how much worse it could have been if Potter was a prefect.

We were attempting to find our way back to Dadimus. The room had moved again, and, owing to both of our extraordinary navigation skills, we turned a corner and ended up in what I suspected was a Ravenclaw corridor. The _Locus Dadimus_ spell directed us into a wall, from which hung a large gilt mirror coated in gray. A dusty table, graced with dead flowers, completed the aura of disuse and dilapidation.

Then again, perhaps we were in Hufflepuff territory. Ravenclaws were notorious neat-freaks.

"Well, we probably _have_ found it," I pointed out to an understandably annoyed Severus.

"Yes, I can see that. And how you propose we find our way through solid granite, Lucius?"

As we stood arguing, a small voice piped up from in front of us. "I could help."

As one, we turned to the mirror. There, plainly standing behind us, was a small girl in a pink and white ruffled party dress, hair in ringlets and bows. She looked around six years of age. I turned, but there was no little girl in the corridor. I looked back. Little girl in the mirror. I looked down the corridor. No little girl in the hallway. She seemed to exist only in the silvered glass.

Severus drew the same conclusion, as I saw when we exchanged glances. This was a new phenomenon, even for Hogwarts students. While I had seen various mirror-creatures, they seldom were anything but floating heads or limbs, not whole people. "Can you…" How to phrase it? "Physically guide us?"

She cocked her head to the side, evidently confused.

"What he meant," Sev clarified, giving me an overly patient look, "Was, can you leave the mirror, or would you just give us directions?"

Her face brightened. "Oh, I can leave the mirror! Just give me your hand."

Generally, in the wizarding world it was very bad policy to break anything out of so obvious a binding; the fact that the girl was cute and young simply might have meant she was trying to entice us into letting her out. But…

No. Slytherins were not the curious House. We left ill-advised, dangerous pursuits to block-headed Gryffindors.

Her lower lip trembled. "Please? I'm _so_ lonely…"

Damn it. I reached out a hand and pressed it to the mirror's surface; breathtaking smile on her face, she grabbed it.

Her hand was icy; not cold as if she'd been outside without gloves, but as cold as metal left out in winter. The burning cold of a ghost.

As I pulled her out, her clothes and flesh silvered, turning white and gray as they left the mirror. With a small pop, her feet slid clear. She gently settled on the floor, still clutching at my hand. I was trying to pry it away from her, and Severus was not helping. He looked extremely amused, and I swung the clinging ghost toward him. "You twit, help me!"

He tried to grab her shoulder, but passed right through her. He stepped back and rubbed his hands in distaste. Touching the dead was never a pleasant experience.

She shouldn't have been able to touch me, either. She should have gone straight through me. But, evidently, as I had been the one stupid enough to help her, I was also physically touchable.

She was still smiling, laughing now. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! I didn't know how to get out. I was so lonely. They won't let me out, they say they're not supposed to. My brother won't come and see me."

"You've a brother?" Severus asked. "What's his name? House?"

"Brian," she giggled, swinging my arm in imitation of a children's game. "I don't care about him anymore. He wouldn't come and see me. He's quite dead now."

Severus looked at me, and I at him. How long had this ghost been in the mirror? And more importantly, why was she in the mirror in the first place?

"Let's go play, Lucius." Her voice deepened from its childish tones to something darker, and for a moment her eyes were bright, dangerous yellow in her clear silver face.

"How did you…" Know my name. Yes, this was a deep shitepile I saw myself sinking into. "And your name is…?"

"My name's…" she stopped swinging, and her face went blank. "I… I…don't know. Lucius, I can't remember! Can't…" She wrapped her arms around my waist and buried her face in my robes.

All right. I was connected to a young, recently-imprisoned ghost by telepathy and touch, she wouldn't turn loose from me, and was playing me like a violin. I'd been quite certain I couldn't be played by anyone. We were still lost, and tired. And I felt queasy.

Deal with one thing at a time, Lucius. One thing at a time.

³³³³

We did manage to find the dormitories, after extensive searching, and Dadimus found it quite funny that I had a literal hanger-on. Surprisingly, the ghost spoke to him, voice serious and adult. "Do you know who I am?"

I'd taken it at the time to be more questioning into her past, her quest to find her name, but now I wasn't so sure.

It might have been a threat.

Early in the morning, I'd left her playing with Sarah to answer Professor Charian's summons. Like all Slytherin Heads before her, Celeste Charian held an impressive office in the dungeons. However, Charian's office was well blanketed against the cold and damp, and decorated in blue and gold, definitely not Slytherin colors. Professor Charian herself was not the image of a proper Slytherin woman; rather than clever, yet retiring, she was bold, sharp as Godric's sword and twice as deadly. She'd nodded at me to close the door behind myself, then motioned towards the plush chairs in front of her massive desk.

She went right to the point. "I would like you to farther explain Mr. Snapes' report to me, Mr. Malfoy. Start with the mirror." She leaned back her comfortable chair, completely at ease. I was not. The imagined dire consequences had manifested—I had to spend more than five seconds with my Head of House, who happened to have very direct ties to my father. And my Lord. Reason enough to be very, very wary of her presence.

I detailed our adventures, and told her of the ghost's ability to touch me. She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing until I'd finished.

"Lucius," she said sweetly, giving me a very dangerous smile. "What is one of the first things taught in DADA at this school?"

I could recite the exact passage she wanted by heart, but I took the risk of digging the hole deeper and ventured, "I realize that assisting the ghost out of the mirror was not the best course of action, but…I thought…"

"Enlighten me, please, on what you _thought_, Mr. Malfoy."

I said nothing.

"Malfoy, that creature was locked in the mirror for a very good reason." She stood, and walked around to my side of the desk, robes swirling dramatically. "She was the sister of a student here, once. His twin. She died, and then he did, drained of life under very suspicious circumstances. By his death, she became more than a ghost, and that was why she has been trapped in that mirror _for two hundred years_."

I was starting to really appreciate the sheer height of that shitepile. I was up to my neck and still couldn't feel the bottom.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, Professor Charian." No. No, I didn't understand. What was she, if she wasn't a ghost? And what the hell was _I_ supposed to do about it?

³³³³

Nothing, it turned out. They had no idea how the previous Headmaster had gotten her into the mirror, and she wasn't going to go back willingly. She wouldn't let either Severus or I leave her sight, and the professors were at a loss as how to deal with her. Even Dumbledore could get nothing concrete out of her, and seemed bespelled by her childish charm; she had great fun dashing about his office after Fawkes. I've never seen the phoenix so ruffled.

I monitored Sev and myself for signs that she was 'draining' us of life, but found none. The rest of September went by this way; Severus and I constantly paranoid and panicking whenever we grew tired, she laughing and telling us we were silly. Slowly, we grew used to having her there.

Fall was upon the castle, and we won the match against Hufflepuff easily. Their Beaters tried to Lippoia Whirlwind me so the hapless Chasers could remember which goals were theirs before I caught the snitch. They made themselves so dizzy that they could barely stay on their brooms—but I was laughing so hard I _did_ almost miss the snitch.

Students and staff alike turned their eyes to the Great Halloween Feast, drawing nearer every day.

³³³³

"…And, in order for the hatchling to develop properly, frequent pruning is encouraged." Professor Hidt demonstrated with merciful efficiency; the head of the juvenile hydra fell into the container with a thump, spraying blood.

I heard retching sounds coming from the Gryffindor side of the pen, while the Slytherins looked like they wished they'd brought something along to read. Severus _had_ brought something to read, and leaned against a post, in full view of the professor. Nameless stood next to him, hands folded primly in front of her. She didn't appear to be paying much attention to the lesson; instead, her undivided attention alternated between my face and Severus' book.

Sev'd made it very clear in the beginning that Nameless was completely my responsibility, and that he wanted no part of her. Understandably put out, she'd taken to haunting his every step. I was so relieved I could of cried.

Have you ever gone through your daily routine—eating breakfast, going to class, taking a _shower_, for God's sake—knowing that someone was staring right at you the entire time? It's impossible. Nameless hadn't let us out of her sight since I'd pulled her out of her prison, and it had been wearing on my nerves like a saw on wood. Such prolonged exposure, however, made it easy to spot that she'd begun to change.

She was…growing. In the mirror, she'd been six. Now she could easily pass for my age. She still wore a ruffled party dress, but it had grown with her, and she had added gloves and a small parasol. Where do ghosts get clothing accessories? She wouldn't tell me.

Color was beginning to show itself, on her dress, in her eyes. Her hair, once silver, was now tinted gold, and her skin was more peach than white.

She was scaring me. She knew it. And insisted I was still being ridiculous.

On the coldest morning yet this year, we had the misfortune to have a scheduled double dose of Care of Magical Creatures. Instead of staying inside and doing bookwork, something most of us were perfectly happy doing as long as the fireplace was lit, Professor Hidt had dragged us outside, insisting that the young Hydras would be more docile in the cold. If that amount of wiggling and yowling was considered docile, I wasn't sure even Tirian would be able to handle raising them.

The professor called partners over to collect their young specimens; our semester project would be to take over the 'pruning', care and feeding of the breeding population newly instated at Hogwarts. Severus brought back a small box; from inside, hisses and scratching along the insides could be heard. When fully grown, I knew hydras were fiercely loyal, ferocious fighters; their skin, scales and teeth were highly useful in any number of protective and defensive spells.

When hatchlings…

Well.

Severus and I, Nameless not far behind, stationed ourselves under a tree. I opened the box and carefully lifted the pathetically disorientated creature from its soiled blanket, wrapping it snuggly in a fresh towel. It crowed out a wailing croon I thought might mean hunger; the fresh chicken giblets provided had frozen to each other in the cold. Gritting my teeth, I worked them loose with equally frozen hands and began dropping them down the ugly thing's throat, one at a time.

Not ten feet from us, Potter's Marauders stared down at their charges with varying expressions of revulsion and illness. James sat, holding the cardboard box and tentatively poking at the tiny hydlet, which let out a scream of outrage and attempted to bite him. He jerked his hand out of harm's reach, and the hydlet fell down, out of sight. Black eyed the 'pruning shears' in his hand, then the hydlet, face going gray around the edges. Lupin had a box under one arm and the other around Pettigrew; I could hear him murmuring soothingly to the smaller boy, "It's alright, Peter, it's alright. Put your head between your knees, and take deep breaths."

Perfect.

Abandoning my own project without a thought, I strode over to the little group, bringing the shears with me. Black was always the easiest mark, so I stopping before him, taking in with relish the queasy look and shudder he gave as he turned his attention to me.

"You're looking a mite green, Black. Not up to it?"

Almost immediately, the sick expression faded from his face. He smirked, abet weakly, and replied, "Always up to it, Luscious." That was Sirius Black, never one to let a straight line pass him by.

In previous years, we'd had a certain mutual respect for each other; our minds thought nearly the same way, as much as a mere Gryffindor, even one of the noble house of Black, could hope to compare to me. In truth, we hadn't been able to resist each other; but there was only room enough in bed and out of it for one of our colossal egos. His had ended up injured, and there had always been a hard edge from then on whenever he talked to me, no matter how friendly he sounded. Sirius Black had a rather large streak of Slytherin in him (unsurprising considering his lineage), and I managed to rouse it.

I sneered, and reached to pluck up the small reptile from inside Potter's box. "Hmmm," I commented, then snipped off an obviously ailing head. Sirius winced, Pettigrew moaned, and Remus gave me a chiding glare worthy of Dumbledore himself. I smirked at him and handed the wailing hydlet back to James, who gave me a look that said _typical Slytherin_, and began to feed the remaining heads chunks of icy chicken liver.

I hated that look, especially from him. Damn it, I wanted him to look at me with desire, not disgust. In the back of my perverse mind, the small, piping voice of Vanity stated, theatrically enough, that I was going to get under that pretty Gryffindor skin if it was the last thing I ever did. I told Vanity to shove it, but I couldn't let the look pass. I opened my mouth to retort, but James' eyes drifted beyond me, the ultimate insult if he only knew it. Vanity wailed. Potter asked, "Who's that?"

I flicked my eyes back. The unnamed ghost stood, uncertain, I few steps behind me. I waved her away. "That's Nameless, the—"

"—_ghost_ who won't leave you alone;" Sirius interrupted. "Even the dead can't resist you, Lucy!"

I felt more than saw Nameless come forward. I glanced aside again; she had a delicate frown on her face, and slipped her arm through mine almost protectively.

"It can touch you?" James asked, surprise coloring his voice.

"Ooooooo, Lucy," Black said delightedly, breath fogging spectacularly, "I wonder if the professors know of your _special attachment_ to her."

"Get your mind out of the gutter," Lupin intoned, then looked at me pointedly. "You have your own project, Malfoy, and Snape is starting to look quite annoyed. Why don't you join him?"

Ah, Remus, peacemaker to the core. I had a deep and abiding affection for him, and his lost cause. _Nothing_ could make the Marauders more peaceable. Smiling, I cupped his cold cheek in my hand, mostly to fluster him and enrage Sirius. It was pitifully easy to do both. "Only because you asked so nicely, Remmie-_darling_," I said, sliding my fingers teasingly across his lips, before turning away. Sirius muttered something uncomplimentary to my retreating back, the expected parting shot. I smirked, even though he couldn't see it. I knew I'd won the day.

³³³³

Too soon, Halloween morning came, and with it an invitation, summoning me to my father's estate for our own festivities. It happened every year on this date, the day most associated with witchcraft and wizardry. My father and the senior Death Eaters would have a civilized dinner party, black tie. Then, after midnight, they would don their robes and masks, ready to participate in another kind of _fete_ altogether.

Severus saw me reading it as he made his way down to breakfast; even as I spotted him and attempted to conceal it, he was striding over, and snatched it out of my hand. "Tonight, then," he murmured, face hardening in determination.

It frustrated me, that I couldn't change his mind. When I'd been younger, I'd recruited as many to my Lord's cause as I could, believing he would somehow overlook my lacking in other areas if I provided him enough fresh meat. Now, I realized that I'd done nothing but doom others to my own fate—that of belonging unto death to a man who was worse than death.

Severus was different. _He_ had approached _me_, and pressured me to take him with me to the Death Eater's most private of meetings. There, he struck a bargain with my Lord, ensuring his part in the new society to come and destroying any life he might have had in the old one. I was awed by his sheer audacity, and deeply saddened. Another life bartered for my own, another promised to walk paths of Darkness the rest of his days. Joy; I was to have company.

Severus first grew angry when I tried to protect him from the fate he'd chosen, then amused. He'd patted me on the head and patronizingly told me he was a big boy now, fully able to handle the consequences of his actions. I couldn't understand him, I couldn't _make_ him understand. It wasn't getting through to him how serious those consequences were; and the way things were looking, it never would.

³³³³

Classes were a blur, and I barely tasted the feast. Hours flew like minutes and minutes like seconds, until the clocks read eleven-thirty. Or, if they were wizarding clocks, something to the effect of "You should have been in bed ages ago, you irresponsible brats!"

Hogwarts had some very sarcastic timepieces.

I sat, running my finger across a black white mask. It was almost like the Japanese _noh_ in simplicity and chilling emotionlessness. When I wore it, I became faceless, nameless like the ghost that even now stood beside me, uncharacteristically quiet and solemn.

The Halloween feast had been over hours ago. I awaited the stroke of midnight and Severus, who had a mask to match mine.

I traced the smiling lips, up the slightly protruding nose, across the blank hole where an eye would show. That was how the Death Eaters knew each other—by eyes alone. It was the only thing the smooth, porcelain-like mask would show. Tirian was a stormy, indeterminate hazel, Etienne flat, cold blue—and my Lord was crimson, like rose petals and bloodlust.

I slipped the mask over my face, carefully securing the delicate ties behind my head. I studied my own face my mirror, over the blackwood dresser. I was gray, a shade of shadow that barely contrasted with the whites of my eyes.

Heavy silk robes clung to and draped my body, unadorned and completely black. They were spelled against dirt, fire, tears, Cruciatus and all between. They offered no protection from cold, nor were they cool in the summer. They were meant for one purpose: appearances. Severus, who could not pay for so fine a set as I could, was treated with less respect simply because his wardrobe did not match the others. He would not spell them to appear silk or satin. Whether or not he would admit it, Severus was much more like James Potter than he wanted to be. Honor, fairness, and earning your way.

A slight swishing sound announced him, and I pulled up my hood, covering any trace of humanity my visage might have held. "Are you ready?"

He nodded, and I held out our Portkey. A large, ornate iron key. It was no doubt part of tonight's festivities. It was scheduled to activate at midnight proper; again, terribly predictable. What worried me was not the contents of the meeting, but the purpose. The invitation was phrased to make it very clear I was not to come without Severus, when he had barely joined the Death Eaters and there were several other students who would have cheerfully given their firstborns for the honor of attending this event.

To put it less than delicately, what the bloody hell was my Lord playing at?

Of course, I wouldn't find out until he himself ripped the veil from my eyes, and Voldemort would take the greatest pleasure in revealing it the most unpleasant way possible.

The Portkey took affect; I looked up as the room began to dissolve…

And saw him in the doorway.

A disorientated swirl of colors, a sickening lurch and the sensation of being flung forward through space followed, and used to such travel, I bent my knees slightly and landed well. But my heart was pounding in my chest, my breath shaky. What had he seen? How long had he been watching? Had he recognized us? Of course, he knew who _I_ was—it was my room after all. And it would be evident that neither I nor Sev were in our dorms, and… what had he been doing there?

Severus stumbled and almost fell off the stone path, into the lush, overgrown grass. There was only the quarter-moon to light the small, empty clearing from which the strange path led. The trees surrounding it were subtly alien; I'd've bet Sev out loud that we weren't in England anymore, but it seemed almost sacrilegious to disturb the preternatural silence that had fallen, heavy as any spell.

Damn, it was cold; I'd hoped the gathering would be somewhere warmer, just this year. I would have hunched my shoulders against the pervasive chill, but the pack of rabid wolves that were the Death Eaters would see the weakness. I knew they were already monitoring us. Beside me, Severus shivered. I put a hand on his shoulder to still him, sending a warning glance. "Watching," I whispered, and left it at that.

Faint screams rose above the sigh of the fragrant wind, then died back; I turned in that direction, stepping off the path, and started toward the sounds. Severus, after a brief hesitation, followed.

The moonlight dripped between boughs and leaves of the ancient trees we walked under, alternately highlighting and hiding the root-riven ground that threatened to trip up our every step. The forest floor itself dipped and twisted through the trees like a frozen river. Intent on the screams, I almost fell down one waterfall of rock and dirt, and put out a hand on a tree to steady myself. A pulse, deep and low as the lull of the sea, answered mine, and the bark grew warm against my palm. I jerked my hand away.

No, we were not in Britain. Definitely not.

We'd been moving at a respectable clip through the forest, quiet as we could be. I picked up the pace slightly, but even though I hadn't changed directions, the screams grew fainter, more distant. "Sev," I whispered as I turned to him. "What—"

He'd disappeared, as had Nameless. I was alone. Shite, shite,_ shite._

In one moment, it had gotten as bad as it possibly could. Severus, as cocky and daring as he was, wouldn't last five minutes with even the most junior Death Eater, and though Nameless was a pain in the ass and able to take care of herself, I still worried. For some reason, I was sure they had been taken, not simply lost. In strange situations like this, which were depressingly commonplace in my backward life of pomp and circumstance, I trusted my instincts.

A voice murmured on the edges of my hearing, like the fey music that played in the mounds of the _sidhe_. It was amused, and it knew my mind well.

_Didn't even notice at first. Tut, tut; I'm disappointed. We have your upstart friend, though he is not aware of it yet, and we will mark him tonight. Our Lord has decided. We are waiting for you to join us._

_Etienne!_ I shouted with all my might into that blank void he spoke from. _Do nothing until I speak with our Lord. Severus is too young, the Mark is too much for him._

_So you maintain. You— _

His tirade ended, sharply, as if someone had cut a telepathic Floo line.

In its place, a voice unmistakably my Lord's filled my head full of Light and Shadow. My vision clouded in violent reds and blacks, and unable to help myself, I sank to my knees, clutching my head in agony.

_Use the key, Lucius. _He drew my name out, savoring it like a fine wine. It sounded somehow obscene, as if he'd propositioned rather than directed me. He read the thought as it crossed my mind, and laughed; the rich, dark laughter that only I seemed to rouse. It rolled through my mind like an orgasm during torture; incredibly painful, indescribably pleasurable, reaction unwanted and unexpected for a reason.

Then, as suddenly as he'd intruded, he was gone again. I could not, dared not call him back.

So. Severus was to be marked. I could do nothing in my present position, which could be ten feet or thousands of miles from the actual meeting. Nameless, who would not leave our sides, had gone, presumably with him. I didn't know if Severus would resist the Mark, or go eagerly into the hell I had managed to avoid for four years.

Again, I noticed the moonlight. It shimmered, dripping down from the gnarled branches to pool at my feet. It looked viscous, almost as if I dipped my fingers in it, they would come away coated in liquid silver. The illusion faded as the wind shifted, rustling the trees into secret conversation and dissolving the puddle of moonbeam.

Human life could be as beautiful, and over as quickly. I knew that from personal experience; but I hoped, almost prayed to a God that all Malfoys supported but none believed in, that just this once, I could win against my Lord. I could save Severus, perhaps even myself. I could.

I drew out my wand, and began to walk.

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	2. EXTRA: Abosolutely, Positively

**(Absolutely, Positively) The Last Time**

**eggadshorace **

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(Graphic!) Slash, Lucius/Sirius. Back when things were simple and Moldy ol' Voldie wasn't an issue, a Marauder and a Death-Eater-in-training promise themselves that this is absolutely, positively the very last time.

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Warnings: Graphic Slash/Lemon and over-usage of the expletive 'fuck'. What's the saying? "Swearing is the resort of a dullard."

That's me…

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The force with which Lucius's back hit the oaken door caused an impressive amount of dust to shower onto him, and the curse he hissed at me before I got my tongue in his mouth could have peeled the paint from the walls—if the walls hadn't long ago lost all the paint they'd had and returned to their eternal, Manor granite. He tried to say something else, probably something nasty by his glare, but now that I had him I wasn't letting go; I've found that a gaggled Lucius is a much more pleasant person to be around—or fucked blind, as the case may be.

The way he twisted against me, struggling against my grip on his wrists and trying to extricate my legs from between his was the very definition of arousing, even though he was definitely not trying to be so. When Lucius tries, there isn't a limp wand in the roo—

He fucking bit me! Hard enough, and on the tongue, that I growled. A poor choice on that front, Lucy—the only thing I like better than being bit is doing the biting myself. He rolled his eyes at me, then made a muffled noise of surprise when I caught his lower lip and returned the favor.

He jerked his head away from me, but he was sweating now, breath starting to come in little pants. Point to Padfoot. "Goddamn it, Black, I thought we'd agreed!"

"On what?" I inquired politely as I turned my somewhat toothy attentions to his exposed neck and collar. "That you're an absolute prat, or obviously need to get laid in the worse possible way— there are so many…"

"Take your pick, but the one I mean is that this was _not _going to happen again!" he panted. "That this was not working, that I hate you and you hate me, that the only thing we have in common is—"

"Fuck agreements." I hiked him up a few more inches, rocked forward experimentally. I knew I'd hit gold when his tirade stuttered out and he let his head fall back with a thunk, leaving more of that lovely, lovely neck open for me to set my teeth into. The button-down got buttoned down, and the tie undone as I pressed tiny biting kisses to him.

"S-stop." I knew he was trying to sound commanding, but with that little hitch in his breath as I rocked up again and the slightly breathy tone, all he did was stroke the flames higher.

"Make me," I muttered into his collarbone. The hollow there was—had been—one of my favorite places to mark him. I could feel him tensing, anticipating the bite… and who was I to disappoint?

"Fuck!" He jerked in my arms. "Black!"

Lucky is the doggie who likes to bite, if one cool spring evening he finds in his distant cousin a willing and able pain slut. I grinned, and sucked hard on my mouthful, causing him to shudder against me with a low moan. Mmmm.

We didn't exactly _like_ each other. To tell the truth, I don't think it would have been this good if we did. With Lucius, I didn't have to be kind or considerate, and he didn't expect those things from me. It was liberating. It was viciously, tongue-cleavingly, mind-numbingly satisfying.

It was the reason was I was… bending… our agreement.

I worked my way back up to his mouth, and met little resistance as I took it, plundered it, refused him any bit of room or release. When I broke the kiss, he was gasping from reaction and lack of breath. "Goddamn it," he panted. "Black, we agreed—"

"Lucius Malfoy, the amazing broken record," I muttered.

"—that this wouldn't happen again, that it was over and done with and we were going to forget it ever happened it the first place! What the bloody hell has gotten _into_ you?"

"Honestly?" I said, swinging him abruptly around to deposit him on the narrow, brass bed (he made a very satisfactory squeak, like a little mouse, really—or perhaps that was the ancient bedsprings). "I'm here." I put a hand on either side of his face, bracing myself over him. "You're here." I brought my face down to his, seeing his pupils dilate and tasting his rapid breaths. "And—" I ground my hips into his, groaning a little myself at the quick whip of arousal the movement caused me, "—I'm horny, baby."

"I'd never have noticed," he squeezed out with an exasperated huff, attempting to brace his arms against my chest. I easily pinned them again, this time with one hand while I started pulling off his dress robes. He struggled hard, harder, but couldn't free himself; I saw in his eyes he didn't like that, not at all. "Been working out, have we?"

"Bit," I admitted while I laid his chest bare. The sight of all that unmarked skin, healed from the abuse I'd heaped on it earlier this year, sparked something feral in me I wasn't sure I could say came from Padfoot. I took a chance and released his hands, turning my attention to the bounty of flesh beneath me.

I'd always liked how responsive he was to the lightest, and heaviest touch. As I ran my tongue over his sternum I rubbed my thumbs around the areolas of his nipples, careful not to so much as brush the nubs. He shuddered, then wriggled when I ran my fingers teasingly over his ribs. He muttered, "Stupid—FUCK!" I chuckled, nipple caught hard between my teeth. He yanked my head up by the hair, yelping when I didn't let him go and only bit down harder, worrying it slightly. He jerked. "Fuck, fuck—"

"'M trying," I said, shoving a hand down his pants while the other twisted his free nipple cruelly.

"Fucking bast—ah! Bitch!"

"Make up your mind, why don't you?"

"I've made up my mind! I said—ah! that I never wanted to see you again and you— _for fuck's sake, stop!"_

I stilled, gazing up his body with my chin resting on his heaving stomach. My hands gripped his hips, chaste for the moment. He had two spots of red slashed high on his cheeks, and it was unexpectedly adorable. He stared back, breath uneven, with a slightly glazed expression.

"Do you want me to stop?" His lips, bruised a pretty pink, parted; probably tell me to piss off and die.

I kissed him, just under his bellybutton; the muscles below the soft caress quivered. Lazily, I traced an aimless path with the bare tip of my tongue, ending at the catch of his trousers. One hand, seemingly of its own violation, came to rest in my hair. "Don't."

"Don't what?" My voice was a purr, low and quiet. I was probably going to loose him if I went too fast; so, slow. My fingers stroked lightly over the rougher fabric. I'd undone the catch, but not the zipper before he stopped me, and now toyed with it, running a finger up and down the teeth. He shuddered, gaze narrowed and hot.

With those eyes on me I began again, tongue making brief forays under the skin that was exposed as the zipper parted, achingly slowly. He squirmed, a little, and my eyebrows rose as more and more skin was exposed.

"Malfoy," I murmured as a little flare of lust closed my throat, "you aren't, by any chance, completely naked under…?" And my tongue drew an arrow on the smooth skin between his hipbones.

"And what it I am?" he responded with a tinge of amusement in his voice. His fingers, perhaps unintentionally, stroked over my scalp. My hands were restless, kneading in place on his thighs, and he bucked slightly into them.

"That could be a problem, if you wanted me to stop." I hooked my fingers onto his waistband, ready to jerk them down, and his hands vised over them. A bit of a rather ridiculous tug-of-war resulted, and we glared at each other.

"I want you," I ground out. "Now."

"Too. Bad."

"Fuck it!" I surged back up his body, he recoiled, and I used his resulting unbalance and a few smacks to get those fucking trousers finally off. Suddenly, he was completely and gloriously nude, excepting the dress shirt hanging off his elbows and that loosened, strangely sexy tie. Furious, he caught my eye and for some reason flushed clear down to his chest. I grinned.

Red all over, he wasted no time in socking me in the jaw and making a run for it. I caught him half off the bed, on his stomach now as he writhed and panted, and maybe I'm more twisted than I thought because the harder he tried to get away and the deeper his scratches were, the more I wanted it, the more I wanted _him_. I jerked him back, and the shirt came off, the tie I left and then I knelt, still fully clothed, between the splayed knees of one seriously pissed-off Lucius Malfoy. I ground into him and he groaned, breath hitching in his throat as my hands spread him wider. I wanted him to fucking _feel_ this.

"Asswipe," he snapped out, though his breath was almost gone. "You're going to rape me? It that it?"

"I won't have to," and God, he made me angry. Rape him? He wanted it as badly as I did. I'd make him say it. I told him as much, growled it as the feel of him, even though my clothing, burned through me.

"I n—aa-_aah!_" He cried out, a sweet note of surprised agony as I bit him on the junction of throat and shoulder, ungentle, and followed the reddening mark it left with a series of the same, down his back, sucking on vertebrae almost as hard as I bit. And he liked it.

He was arching into me before I even reached the middle of his back, but once I sunk my teeth into the first mouthful of that ass he was completely mine, moaning like a whore and jerking with each new welt I raised on him. Those words—please oh please, I want you, do it_now_—tumbled from his lips like a waterfall, every single syllable hypocrisy. Prat.

I paused long enough to strip out of my own clothes; the trousers I left for now, but my own robes and shirt had to go and that tie was strangling me.

Freed, my thumbs stroked idly along the inside curve of his ass, smirking widely as he peered back at me, mouth hanging open as he gasped and tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. "Shit, you're rough," he whispered. "You'd better fucking have some lube."

I shrugged, hitching his hips higher. "Sorry. We'll have to make due."

"Make do my ass!"

"Well, yes." I lowered my mouth back to his tailbone, let a breath ghost over him. His eyes, stilled locked with mine, widened almost comically.

"Black?" he said disbelievingly. "You—can't—"

I spoke directly against him, letting my breath wash over him and reveling in the helpless little whimper he couldn't quite swallow. "I can. I will."

At the first touch of my tongue to his flesh I had to hold on tightly as his body attempted to levitate off the bed. The noise he made was a soft scream, but it only got louder as I explored him, first circling and enjoying the wild thrusts, then penetrating, stretching and tasting him as deeply as I could. I used my fingers, searching. "God,_God!_" I memorized the spot and began to stroke his slick cock in time, and listened as he (loudly) lost his mind, praising me and cursing me in equal amounts.

By the time I moved back up his body, he was a shivering mess, quaking as one hand smoothed up his spine while the other jerked open my pants. I was beyond ready for this.

"Ready or not," I purred in his ear, rubbing myself against him. "Here I—_fuck!_"

Without warning, Lucius slammed himself down on me, with an explosive moan of relief as his head hung down between his arms. Unprepared for that hot, tight grip, I felt a little lightheaded myself. "Way to warn a body before you do that, huh?"

"I want it, you bastard. I want you, so _fuck me_."

"Yes," I panted, too far gone to care anymore. "Now."

The rhythm we made was punishing; it had to have hurt him because it was hurting _me_, for fuck's sake, but the lines of his body as he arched into every thrust I gave him, the way he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth in fierce satisfaction when I hit him where he needed it most, was beautiful. He was beautiful.

I would never say that out loud, and he'd never say the same of me.

But when I cried out his name, when it all became too much and the beauty of him overwhelmed what little control I had left; just as he came all over my hand and the dusty bedsheet some servant of a hundred years ago had left behind, he whispered, almost too low to hear, "_Sirius…!"_

And as we lay limp, sweaty and tangled up in each other on the bed with the ancient springs, I dragged him closer and sighed his name into the snarled strands hair that stuck to his neck.

"This is the last time." He spoke into the dimness of the room, sun growing weaker outside the window.

"Absolutely."

"… that's what you said before."

"Oh? Maybe this time I really, positively mean it."

His laugh was a bit cynical, but then, we were both a bit cynical these days.

"Lucius…"

He shivered, and I pulled him closer still.

"I'll never love you."

Silence. I waited.

He spoke, slowly. "… and this is absolutely, positively the last time. Right?"

I smiled.

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Read? Review! 

So, yeah, this is a parting gift for anyone, and I'm not saying they haven't DIED in the interim, who read "Old School" when it was posted THREE YEARS AGO and still occasionally send me reviews like, "please oh pwease update someday omg I love ur story bye". I love you too.


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